


Bears like Honey

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Adorable John, Adorable Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy, M/M, and its adorable, just adorable, soooooo happy, they are just sickeningly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lazy Sunday in bed, bees, The Beatles, and John drumming on Sherlock's bum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bears like Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nondeducible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nondeducible/gifts).



> This was inspired by nondeducible's amazing head canon on tumblr, about the boys lounging in bed all day while Sherlock reads a book on bees and John plays drums on his bum. 
> 
> I am fully aware of the usage of the word 'bear' in the gay community and had some fun with that. 
> 
> Also, the book Sherlock is reading is a real book, by Alison Gillespie, about urban beekeeping and its actually a great book.

Winter sunlight drifts down through the part in the curtains, wavering and cool, caressing the back of John's golden hair with silver. The radiator under the window has been broken for a week now, never shuts off, making the bedroom July hot. The windows are cracked just enough to let a thin stream of cool air in, but the panes are steamy, the heat of the room a strange juxtaposition with the wintry light and white sky outside.

A constant quiet thumping bass emits from John's iPod, docked into a tiny set of speakers on the bedside table, the volume too low to hear any of the melody. Sherlock takes a sip of his cold coffee, foraged hours ago from the kitchen, just before John emerged into the doorway puffy-eyed and sleep-rumpled, dragging Sherlock back into bed with just a heated stare and a well timed nibble at his bottom lip.

Now John stirs and snuffles, nose twitching to the side in an achingly familiar way that makes Sherlock's heart and lungs do funny things, like forget how to breathe and pump blood through his body. 

"Mmmm." John rubs at his nose and rolls to his back. He blinks his eyes open several times and knuckles into them with his fists.

Sherlock quickly averts his gaze. Doesn't want John to think he was watching him sleep for almost two hours, even though that was, in fact, precisely what he's been doing. "Oh. Awake again, I see."

John stretches his arms up over his head and twists round, bending his spine until it cracks rather loudly. He yawns wide and scratches at the stubble along his jaw, then slaps his hands down on his bare belly, rolls to his side and nuzzles his face into Sherlock's armpit, humming and making soft sleepy grunting noises.

Sherlock shakes his head, his features lit by the faintly bluish glow of the Kindle he has propped against a pillow. "Listen to you. You're like a bear sometimes, John, I swear. A small, grouchy, grizzly bear."

"Mmmmm. Small? Hmm. That's definitely not the impression you gave me this morning..." John lifts his head and smirks crookedly, winks.

"John!" Sherlock slaps at John's arm, but can't hold back the grin spreading across his face.

"Oh yes, forgive me for talking about sex with the person I'm having it with. What was I thinking? You're such a bloody prude sometimes, Sherlock." John looks up at him teasingly from under those absurdly long blonde lashes and mouths at his shoulder. 

"Not."

"Are. And for the record, I'm certainly not grouchy. I'm quite content, actually." John wriggles closer, snakes his hand down under the sheet covering Sherlock's lower half, and squeezes his bare arse playfully. "Thats the point of a lazy day in bed, Sherlock. It's fun to just cuddle and - mmm - fool around, and sleep awhile - then - mmm - do it all again --"

"John, I'm reading." Sherlock pushes half heartedly at John's head, which is now buried in the curve of Sherlock's spine. He's trying for exasperation, but he thinks maybe he's not getting it right, because all he can feel is blindingly strong affection as John's warm lips press all over his back.

"You aren't, you little liar." John says fondly, tucking his chin over Sherlock's shoulder and peering at the screen. "You were at that same page when I fell asleep."

Shit. Think, Sherlock. "I'm re reading it."

"No, you aren't." John's nudging at his neck, lips soft and open, dragging up into his hairline. Sherlock shivers and arches into the touch, feels John smiling against his skin. "Put the damn kindle away, Sherlock."

"Mmmm. Tempting..." Sherlock slips a hand behind him, where John's now half on top of him, insinuating a knee between his thighs, and wraps his fingers around John's hip. "But I really do want to read this chapter at least."

John laughs low in his throat, a secret laugh only for Sherlock, one that he's never heard outside of them like this, naked and soft and tangled together in an overwarm bed. The sound of it sweet and fluid as melted honey, covering Sherlock's nerve endings, spreading heat over his epidermis. Heady. Thick. Making it hard to think.

"Sherlock." John taps his fingertips over Sherlock's spine one vertebrae at a time, his cheek pressed against Sherlock's shoulder. "That's the title page, love."

Damn it all. "Well I want to get to the chapter then."

John flicks his tongue idly at Sherlock's earlobe, and reads out, "Hives in the City: Keeping Honey Bees Alive in an Urban World. You planning on starting beekeeping, Sherlock?"

"Maybe." Sherlock knew John would find it silly. He turns the screen off with a huff. "Nevermind."

"No, love. What are you doing? Don't turn it off. I wasn't --" John's lips against his pulse now, but not overtly sexual, just warm, gentle, the feeling a glowing light inside Sherlock not unlike the presence of John himself. "Read your book. Read it to me."

"What? Why?" 

John reaches around and turns the screen back on, brushing his knuckles over Sherlock's cheekbone as he retracts his hand. "Because I'm interested in what you're interested in. And also I suddenly had an inexplicably sexy vision of you standing on our roof in a beekeeping outfit. I didn't even know you had an interest in bees, beyond occasionally drizzling honey all over me..."

Oh, that was definitely an added bonus to keeping bees - a constant supply of honey for -- "Well, yes, I do rather enjoy that."

"Mmmm. I know." John says slowly, sucking at Sherlock's neck and rolling his hips against Sherlock's arse, just a thin sheet keeping them from being skin against hot skin. "Talk to me about bees, baby."

Sherlock laughs and reaches up to run his fingers through John's hair, cup the back of his head in his hand. "You really want to hear about bees, John?"

"Mmm hmm." John plants a firm kiss in the center of Sherlock's shoulder blades and rubs his nose up and down. "I really do."

Sherlock's relatively certain John doesn't give toss about bees, and just likes to hear the sound of Sherlock's voice, but that's okay, too, so he takes a deep breath and tells John a very little bit of what he actually knows about bees. Because the considerable depth and breadth of his interest in bees is rather staggering, even to himself. 

"Alright. So. Honey bees are actually a very small fraction of the world's bee population. Most bees are not honey producing, but honey producing bees pollinate over 80% of the world's crops. They're desperately important to food production, and they're dying off at an alarming rate. Beekeeping and managing the population is still done on mostly a small scale, remarkably unchanged from the birth of beekeeping almost 16,000 years ago..."

John sighs and settles his weight stretched all along Sherlock's back, his head resting in the curve of Sherlock's neck. His arms drape over Sherlock's waist and he tucks his hands up against his ribs. Sherlock feels John's belly expanding into the small of Sherlock's back with every inhalation, filling the space between them.

John allows him talk for a solid twenty or thirty minutes without interruption, until Sherlock pauses for a breath, right in the middle of telling John about the recent boom in urban rooftop beehives and the medicinal uses of honey and bee pollen. 

John wiggles, turns his face, brushes his lips against Sherlock's shoulder, and murmurs, "I love you."

"Because I'm talking about bees?"

"Because you are talking about bees. Because you could talk about absolutely anything and I would find it fascinating as hell. Because I can't believe the man who didn't know the earth went around the sun or that we don't currently have a king in this country knows nearly everything about the history of beekeeping and is actually concerned about the declining bee population enough to want to stick bee hives on our roof. Because you always surprise me, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that, because John's bursts of affectionate compliments still flummox him, so he just hums in agreement and lets John nip at his neck and his ears and rub his face in his hair. It isn't really arousing as much as it is deeply satisfying - John heavy on his back, pressing him into the mattress, the sound of John's breath against his ear. Just John. Pleasantly grumbly and warm and comforting.

"All this talk about honey is making me hungry." John growls against Sherlock's temple. 

"See? Bear." 

"What?" John's chuckling as he pushes up off the bed, leaving Sherlock's back cold where his warmth had been.

"Bears like honey, John. It's common knowledge."

"Oh, you're one to talk about common knowledge, you are. Jesus. Okay so if I'm a bear who likes honey, who are you then? Christopher Robin?" John tosses over his shoulder as he bounces off the end of the bed and stretches, pale skin pulling taut over slim hips as he bends backward with his arms over his head.

"Who?"

"Nevermind." John laughs again, full and fond, and rubs his hand down his chest, pats his belly. "I'm going to go make a sandwich. Want anything?"

"Whatever you're having is fine."

Sherlock listens to the slap slap of John's bare feet on the floor, the rattle of the fridge opening, thinking that John's idea of spending the whole Sunday in bed really was rather brilliant. By the time John returns with a tray stacked with sandwiches and glasses of water, Sherlock's read the introduction and is thoroughly ensconced in the first chapter. John hands him a sandwich and settles back against the headboard, wiggling his feet in time to the soft music, and getting crumbs all over the sheets. 

John's weight shifts as he suddenly leans over and sets the tray on the floor. "I love this song. Won't bother you if I turn it up?"

"Mmm." Sherlock shakes his head, barely having heard.

John turns the volume up, rocks up to kneeling, shuffles over to Sherlock and noses against his ear. "You aren't paying a bit of attention to me. I could do anything to you right now."

"Couldn't. I have selective hearing. Only important things." Sherlock tries hard not to smile, prodding John just enough to get a reaction. He enjoys pestering John far more than he should, probably. 

"Oh you little shit," John says fondly, and bites into Sherlock's earlobe.

"Ouch!" Sherlock shoves at his face, now alight with laughter, and bends a long leg up to kick at his arse. 

"Paying attention now, aren't you?" John rolls on his back and pinches at Sherlock's side. He taps his knuckles down over the outside of Sherlock's thigh and rolls his neck. "I used to be able to play the percussion part of this song. I was a pretty good drummer in my day. I should get a drum set, annoy the shit out of you when you're in your Mind Palace."

"I wouldn't hear you."

"God this song is perfect. I'm playing it again." John reaches over and taps the screen, nodding his head in time. "You like it?"

"It's fine." 

"Oh god you're hopeless." John laughs and sits up again. He can't seem to stay still, excess energy making him tap his fingers all over the mattress and wriggle his hips, which are now settling on the backs of Sherlock's thighs, "You don't even know what band this is, do you?"

"No." Sherlock realises John isn't making fun of him. Sherlock's lack of any working knowledge of popular culture has become a running joke between them, with John on a fairly lighthearted mission to educate him, and Sherlock just as lightheartedly resisting him at every turn. 

"I play this album literally all the time, Sherlock. You must have heard this song a hundred times."

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't pay attention."

"But you love music. I don't get it."

Sherlock's reading a particularly interesting section about relocating hives for the winter months. He sighs heavily. "I love classical music. Not this...whatever it is."

"It's The Beatles, Sherlock! This is Abbey Road. It's, it's...it is classical music. In a matter of speaking." John smacks a flat palm down on Sherlock's arse. "Deserve a spanking, you do, for not knowing The Beatles, for god's sake. That's just a crime against nature."

"Now there's a way you can get my attention." Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John and arches an eyebrow. 

John laughs with his mouth open, blue eyes twinkling, and yanks the sheet down off Sherlock's arse. "Look at this perfect thing." He runs his hands over the rise of his cheeks, kneading a little, and then smacks the left one lightly. "Ooh, I like that. Got a nice resonance. Like a bongo."

Sherlock shakes his head, giggling. "You're an idiot."

"So you've told me many times. Yet you keep doing things like asking my opinions about cases," John slaps his other arse cheek, now in rhythm with the music, "And letting me handle all our money." Slap. "And allowing me to have my way with you on just about every surface in this flat." Slap. "And do whatever I want to this absolutely magnificent arse of yours." Slap. "So either I can't be too much of an idiot, or you're just as big of one as I am."

The weight of John across his thighs, the rhythmic smack of his hands on Sherlock's bare skin as he sings softly along with the song, it's all so. Almost hypnotising. Sherlock tosses the kindle aside, laying his head down on his folded arms, a cosy drowsiness spreading through him. 

"Are you playing drums on my arse, John?" A cold breeze from the open window licks over his bare back and he shivers. 

"Yeah." Slap. "You gonna stop me?" 

Heat floods through him as John leans over his back and scrapes his teeth over Sherlock's shoulder blade, kisses the nape of his neck, and then sits back up and resumes his drumming. 

"I wouldn't dream of it. You should never disturb a contented bear." Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. "Today was one of your better ideas, John."

"Was? Not over yet, my little honey bee." John slides his hands around Sherlock's hips, and then down over his thighs, his touch definitely becoming more hungry.

"Oh god, if you ever call me that in public..." 

"Count on it." John licks a wet warm stripe up Sherlock's spine, and murmurs, "Come on, little bee. Turn over. This bear wants some honey."

"You're going to be insufferable with this, aren't you?" Sherlock groans, allowing himself to be flipped roughly on his back, as John crawls up to press their mouths together. 

"Completely." John grins, biting at Sherlock's lower lip and pushing his hands up over his head. "And you'll love it."

Sherlock gives in, both to the nickname which seems to be inevitable, and the insistent roll of John's lower body against his. John is a force he can rarely resist. Afterwards, John spooning tightly against Sherlock's back under the sheets, rubbing his stubbly face over his spine and sighing, Sherlock kisses John's salty fingers and presses his nose into his calloused palm, and drifts off to thoughts of honeycomb and grizzly bears and some old man with the surname of Mustard.


End file.
